


Naughty Thoughts

by chewysugar



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Boners, Established Relationship, F/M, Fade to Black, Forgiveness, High School, Mild Sexual Content, Relationship Issues, Showers, Telepathic Sex, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 10:20:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12981957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: Scott tries to make it up to Jean the day after forgetting their anniversary. But she's not letting him get off so easily, in every sense of the term.





	Naughty Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really starting to dig writing about these two! Also, Scott and Jean are both eighteen in this story, hence the reason I didn't give it an Underage warning.

In all the disorder of his life, Scott Summers was only ever certain of a handful of truths: he was a complicated wreck masquerading as a hero; life could be unbearably difficult at points, but friends made it easier; and the girl he loved could cold-shoulder like nobody’s business. Granted, Jean’s current grudge against him was entirely his fault, and he was more than willing to bear the brunt of her distance until it ran its course.  
  
Still, after four years of dating, and a year and a half of almost always falling asleep with her beside him, Scott found waking up to an empty bed almost too cruel to handle. Again, he reminded himself that it was entirely his fault. So, feeling thoroughly miserable, he showered, and dressed for school alone.  
  
As he made his way down the corridor, he heard a deep, booming “Summers!” from behind him. Scott winced, but slowed his pace as Warren joined him. His million dollar smile looked to be worth about twice that much, and Scott greatly wished to sock it off the playboy angel’s face.  
  
“Before you even start,” Scott said darkly as they descended the staircase, “it wasn’t like I meant for any of it to happen.”  
  
“Sure,” Warren said with a smirk. “It’s not as though you both haven’t been together forever and a bloody Sunday.”  
  
“And if you had more than a relationship with your right hand and a bottle of Lubriderm, you’d know that being with someone that long means that you don’t forget when you first got together.”  
  
“Which is why I’m baffled that you did.” Warren didn’t signify Scott’s ribbing with any form of acknowledgement. “Fourth anniversary slips your mind, and right in front of everyone you know here. So tell me: how pissed was she last night? It doesn’t look like you’ve been sleeping on the floor.”  
  
“I didn’t. She spent the night in ‘Roro’s room.”  
  
Scott hated to admit it—hated to admit that any of this was happening. Part of him dreaded seeing Jean again that day, and for a greater reason than just the heinous guilt that was eating away at him. What he’d done in his ignorance the night before had been humiliating for Jean, and Scott knew he’d be very lucky if he finished the day off with her still at his side.  
  
“Ah well,” Warren sighed. “It’s not like this place is hurting for girls these days.”  
  
“Thanks,” Scott said, so flatly that he may well have flipped Warren off. Being the world’s most eligible bachelor, he couldn’t understand. Jean wasn’t just Scott’s girlfriend—she’d stopped being that long ago. She wasn’t just beautiful and warm and loving—she was effervescent, like some glowing flame in the darkness that had latched onto Scott long before he’d ever even known such things could sink claws onto a person; and as a result of being stuck up his own backside for the last several months, he’d let her down in the worst way possible.  
  
“Aw c’mon, Slim,” Warren said. “Just try playing the field for a little while. You’d be surprised how much tail a guy like you could—  
  
Scott's glasses glowed warningly. “You know what an ortolan is, right Warren?”  
  
“I can’t say as I do.”  
  
“They’re this bird in France with real pretty wings. Chefs drown them in amaretto and then deep-fry them whole—wings and all. So unless you wanna know what it feels like to be an ortolan, lay off. Please.”  
  
Warren only laughed—it was his way. Anything amounting to serious was shrugged off his shoulders; the world was his oyster and all the difficulties just a balsamic dipping sauce.  
  
Scott often found himself wanting to be that way. But he’d seen too much in his life; Warren was privilege, Scott was wreckage, and after the scene at the restaurant the night before, he was burning wreckage. When he entered the dining hall to find Jean not at the table by the window that they’d shared for years, Scott’s fear only mounted.  
  
She’d leave him for certain, and the worst part was that he deserved it. How he could have forgotten their anniversary after all this time was, to him, a sign of his own ineptitude. He was terrible boyfriend material, and the world in which he and all the other students at Professor Xavier’s school lived wasn’t helping.  
  
But it was a sign of how much Jean had changed him over the years that Scott refused to give into that dark cloud. He had to try, had to salvage this somehow. So he rummaged through the cupboards for Jean’s favorite mug, poured her half a coffee, added a generous helping of white chocolate raspberry creamer and stirred. Then he retrieved a tube of caramel syrup and, as carefully as he could, drizzled “I’m sorry” over the frothy surface of the concoction.  
  
To say that Jean Grey had a sweet tooth was a profound understatement. Add coffee, which she often non-ironically referred to as the drink of the gods, to the mix, and Jean could brighten like the sun. Scott had, on many instances, seen Jean go from grumpy to hugging everyone nearby and bouncing along to whatever music happened to be playing after only several sips of sweet, sweet java.  
  
Scott held the steaming mug as carefully as he could all the way from the dining hall to his first period lecture. Doctor McTaggert’s classroom was clear at the opposite end of the first floor, and Scott genuinely feared that he would disturb the message written on the foam to the point of being indecipherable before he arrived at class.  
  
Fortunately for him, he encountered only minimal turbulence. Most of the students were giving him a wide berth. Even if they hadn’t been at the restaurant the night before to see Jean promptly burst into furious tears, or overhear the one-sided screaming match that had taken place in the parking lot, it didn’t take long for word to spread. Most of them already thought Scott capable of leveling the school with a look—which he could do, but never would. This morning they treated him like an atom bomb about to go off.  
  
It was all for the better. He arrived in Doctor McTaggert’s class with minutes to spare. And there, sitting at the shared desk near the window, was Jean. Scott felt relieved that she hadn’t blocked his seat with either her book bag or another student; and she didn’t protest when he slipped into the chair, either. She didn’t really do anything, in fact. She faced the whiteboard, her emerald gaze stoney, her body positioned in her seat just enough to keep space between her and Scott.  
  
And it hurt—it hurt worse than any torture or abuse Scott had ever endured. Still, he had to make an effort to make this right—the days of his self-inflicted misery were long over, mostly thanks to Jean’s influence. He had to try—and trying entailed putting one foot in front of the other—small gestures leading up to a whole journey, and that journey started with a cup of Jean’s favorite coffee.  
  
Scott set the mug on Jean’s desk. He was suffocating to say something, anything. But class was already starting, and he didn’t want to humiliate Jean anymore by causing some kind of scene.  
  
He saw Jean’s posture relax slightly as the fragrance of the coffee drifted her way. Her chest rose with a slight sigh; her eyes fell on the surface of the steaming beverage. A small smile graced her lips at the same time that her gaze softened. She glanced Scott’s way, and though Scott could still feel the sting of her hurt at his behavior, he breathed a slight sigh of relief when he felt Jean’s foot gently kick his under the table. She cupped the mug, took a long drink, and then genuinely smiled.  
  
Scott turned to face forward, feeling as if he could fly. Just as Doctor McTaggert began her lecture of the day, however, he heard a voice speak in his mind, clear and distinct, and tinged with a mischief that made him freeze.  
  
_You’re not out of the woods just yet, Slim._  
  
Scott blinked. He glanced sidelong at Jean, wondering what in the world she had planned. But she too was facing front, her eyes fixed, for all intents and purposes, on their professor.  
  
The first half hour passed without incident. Doctor McTaggert riveted the senior biology class with the intricacies of cellular division, and Scott waited on tenterhooks for some form of recompense to come his way. Jean, however, remained silent and smiling softly, sipping away at her coffee without a care in the world.  
  
Doctor McTaggert looked around at the assembled class of about fifteen young mutants. Her gaze fell on Scott and she said, perfectly pleasant, “Scott, would you do the honors of listing the stages and processes of mitosis for us?”  
  
Scott, having studied like a good boy, was not only capable of doing so, he was more than willing. He shifted, prepared to slide his seat back and walk up to the board.  
  
Without warning, his mind swam with a sudden burst of images that froze him dead. He saw Jean, dressed in a sheer nightgown, swaying her hips as she walked towards their bed; he felt a tremor of flesh-memory run through him—of Jean’s nails digging into his back, of her lips on his neck, of her hand around his...  
  
Scott shuddered, his lips parting in surprise. He tried to focus, but the mental images wouldn’t stop: he saw creamy smooth skin, felt warm breath against his groin, heard pleasurable laughter and gasps and groans. All at once his body reacted, and did so with a vengeance.  
  
Through the personal porno invading his mind, he heard Doctor McTaggert say, “Scott, shake a leg, please.” Some of the other students snickered; Scott saw Warren lean over to Hank and whisper something that made the furry blue genius’s eyes widen.  
  
Dazed, his body raging with a rush of hormones, Scott made to reach for the book bag at his feet. The second his fingertips were within inches of it, it flopped to the floor and slid several inches away and out of reach.  
  
Scott stared at Jean, trying to focus as more and more erotic memories and fantasies rolled though his head. Jean only watched him as she finished off her coffee, her expression placid.  
  
“Go on, baby,” Jean said, the slightest hint of victory in her voice. “Show the class that big sexy brain of yours.”  
  
Scott swallowed. This was the epitome of humiliating. He hadn’t had to endure this kind of thing since he was thirteen years old. But he’d disgraced Jean worse the night before, not just by forgetting their anniversary, but by also making her cry and bite his head off in front of their friends and several dozen strangers. He may have smoothed things over, but Jean wasn’t about to let him off the hook without a little revenge.  
  
Scott took a deep breath. He rose from his seat and tried to hunch to hide his predicament, but it was no use. He’d worn his jeans too close fitting that morning and was, it was true, truly gifted in more ways than just mutation.  
  
Doctor McTaggert rolled her eyes and turned away, pretending not to see. Warren laughed openly, though not altogether mockingly. Several other students guffawed, but Scott didn’t pay them any mind. On any other day he’d have had some control, but this was a minor cross to bear in return for the truly horrendous way he’d treated the girl he loved.  
  
The onslaught didn’t cease the entire time he was at the whiteboard. Scott wondered if Jean would deal the ultimate blow in payback and shove him from the airplane without a parachute—as it were—in front of their entire class. But she only kept the images coming long enough to make Scott squirm; and when, after a full two minutes of almost setting off his fuse, Scott finally turned back and hobbled to his seat, his little problem on full display, Jean finally stopped tormenting him. His mind became clear of her influence, and the tide of hormones rushing through his body ebbed.  
  
The smirk on Jean’s face was pure platinum, and when she didn’t shirk from Scott’s offer to walk her to her next class of the day, Scott began to think that all was forgiven.  
  
_Not yet_ , Jean said in his mind as she disappeared into her calculus class. _I suffered the whole night; now you get the day._  
  
Shit.  
  
Jean was true to her word. The rest of Scott’s day was spent shifting uncomfortably in whatever seat he happened to be occupying. As Jean was capable of keeping close tabs on him, she intruded at the worst possible moments, sending laser-guided thoughts his way whenever he happened to be in proximity of another person, or else needed to be up in front of a group of people. By the time lunch came around, Scott was breathing like a winded rhinoceros, his control hanging by a thread.  
  
To disappear into the boy’s washroom, or even his and Jean’s bedroom for a bout of self-abuse would have been easy and, more importantly, beneficial. But to Scott, this was not only a fitting punishment, it was also some of the most intense foreplay he’d ever endured.

The only time that it proved to be a true bother was after basic training.

For those students who were counted among the X-Men, physical education doubled as time for Danger Room exercises. Scott’s training session occurred at odds from Jean’s, for the simple fact that her schedule differed from his. Despite her continued intrusion into his mind, Jean knew that Scott needed to be focused during his time training. So it was that he passed the hour with Bobby, Warren, and Hank without too much incident.  
  
The showers afterward were another story entirely.  
  
Scott had grown used to communal locker rooms. Compared to the ones he’d been ranked out and beaten up in during his brief stint in public school, the showers in the mansion were practically Eden, albeit with body odor, the odd trail of malted feathers (courtesy of Warren) and shed blue fur (courtesy of Hank). Any discomfiture was talked away; jokes abounded when the boys were in a good mood; and when they were in a bad mood, they simply showered, toweled off and got on with the day.  
  
Today, with everyone privy to Scott’s mental punishment, and a rather intense but well executed hour in the Danger Room behind them, they were all laughing, joking and going through a play-by-play of sweet maneuvers and awesome dodges.  
  
Scott stayed under the spray, thinking about homework and training. Then, without warning, he saw a frenetic series of moments from one night several months ago when he and Jean had made creative use of the back seat of his Roadster.  
  
His muscles tensed; something molten spread in his gut. Scott stared hard at the mildewed tiles as the water splattered over his visor; behind his eyes, all was carnal and erotic. He breathed through his nose, hoping that the unpleasant locker room scent of teenage boy, wet fur and feathers would be enough to keep the sensations at bay.  
  
_Scotty_ , Jean’s voice purred in his head, _Scotty_ , _I’m not angry anymore._  
  
Scott grunted, and his muscles coiled as if in preparation to each out and touch her.  
  
_I’m so the opposite of angry_ , Jean went on. _Sure would be nice if we could call it square and maybe do—oh, I don’t know...something like…this…tonight._  
  
“Ah fuck,” Scott said, his voice ringing around the showers as Jean hit him with a full-force fantasy involving a cheerleading outfit and a the gym’s equipment storage room.  
  
Jean’s laugh rippled through his mind like a rush of soothing summer rain.  
  
_Nobody’s around_ , Jean went on. The insinuation in her words made Scott’s skin prickle with needful warmth. He glanced to the side; sure enough, the others had disappeared to the changing benches.  
  
He wouldn’t even be long; wouldn’t even light the fireworks, so to speak. All he needed was to feel something to take this maddening edge off, at least until he could be with her. It would only be a few hours and then he would...  
  
_Oh Scott_ , Jean gasped.  
  
Scott smirked. He’d broadcast all his pent up need right to Jean without meaning to. The hunger in her voice only proved to him that once they got each other alone, the reality of being together would put all these memories and fantasies to shame.  
  
But first, all he had to do was reach out and touch what was waiting for him here...just for a few quick seconds of much-needed physical relief...  
  
“Geez, Cyke, are you trying to drown yourself—whoa.”  
  
Bobby’s voice died away. Scott grimaced; Jean’s presence disappeared from his mind, and the fire in Scott’s loins abated to a low smolder. He glared at the water sluicing down the wall so fiercely that several beads of it started to smoke and simmer.  
  
Bobby laughed, nervously. “Really, Cyke? We’re all, like, twenty feet away. Not that I’d blame you when you're working with some pretty impressive equipment.”  
  
“You make it a habit to compliment other dudes on their junk, Bobby?”  
  
“Only when the mood strikes me.”  
  
“What are the chances of you getting lost?”  
  
“Slim.” Scott heard the grin in Bobby’s voice. Shaking his head and slicking his hair back, Scott shut the water off. He turned, shameless, and strode passed Bobby, who was still leaning against the wall with an interested look painted on his face.  
  
Scott dressed, his face flushed with a mounting animal need—he needed her, needed his girl, the one person in all this disorder who was his peace sign. It went beyond the perpetual hard-on he’d been walking around with all that day—beyond the desire to slake the inferno in his balls.  
  
And he could tell that Jean was right there with him in this line of thinking; whenever he chanced to throw a coherent thought her way, he could feel the longing in each response.

_Need me that badly?_

_Yes. Now._

_Come and find me, handsome_ , she said.  
  
Scott stumbled and pushed his way through a sea of students. He could hear Jean, giving him hints as he tried to find her somewhere, anywhere, in the sprawling mansion. And with each hint came another mental image that almost drove him insane.  
  
Dining hall. _Cold_ —a memory of their first really romantic kiss.  
  
Art room. _Cold_ —a day at the beach when Jean had stolen Scott’s swimming trunks.  
  
Staircase. _Warmer_ —Jean getting out of a hot bubble bath.  
  
Upstairs corridor. _Hot_ —both of them tangled in the sheets.  
  
Their bedroom door. _Blazing baby_ —her mouth on him.  
  
Scott burst through the door. If he’d expected to find her in some kind _Victoria Secret_ get-up, crawling on their bed like a sex kitten, he was disappointed—not that Scott found anything about this remotely disappointing. But she was there, cross-legged in the middle of the bedspread, wearing a comfortable sweater and jeans that, to Scott, looked more sensual than an entire catalogue of lingerie.  
  
Jean quirked an eyebrow, and raked Scott up and down with that fiery green gaze.  
  
“So,” she said, her eyes resting on the effect she’d been having on Scott intermittently throughout that day, “is that for me, lover boy?”  
  
Scott crossed the room and showed her again and again that, yes, it was.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was an exercise in practicing restraint. I'd really appreciate hearing your thoughts, gentle readers.


End file.
